Bound To the Cruel Alpha

Chapter Fourteen

Draven

Draven sat in the high-backed chair of carved oak, one arm draped lazily along its armrest, the other braced against his knee as the servants fluttered around him like sparrows. They had already fussed over his boots for ten full minutes, and if he had to be presented with one more option, he was liable to snap.

“My lord, the darker leather has a finer polish,” one said, holding up a gleaming black boot as though it were some priceless artifact.

“But the brown will match better with the amber thread in the lining of the doublet,” another countered, clutching its rival like a child.

“Boots,” Draven said, his voice as flat as the stone floor. “They are boots. Not the crown jewels.”

The two exchanged glances, hesitant, then both looked back at him as though he held the wisdom of the gods. Draven pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Left,” he muttered finally, gesturing at random.

The man holding the black boot lit up like he’d just been knighted. He scurried forward to kneel and pull it onto Draven’s foot, tugging at the leather with the reverence of a priest dressing an idol.

The other servant sulked visibly, muttering about “a lost opportunity for elegance.”

Draven smirked under his breath. Elegance. In a hall that would soon be stuffed with half-drunk nobles more interested in gorging themselves than noting the stitching on his boots.

“Your cape, Alpha?” another servant piped up, holding out two options draped across his arms. One was green velvet, rich as pine in winter. The other was black, shot with silver thread that caught the torchlight like frost.

Draven glanced at them, unimpressed. “Which one covers me the fastest?”

“My lord,” the man said, scandalized.

Before Draven could answer, the doors creaked open.

Namira swept in like a queen, her gown clinging to every line of her tall frame, the fabric so tight it looked poured on. Deep green, with a shimmer that shifted as she moved—just this side of acceptable for court, though he knew some elders would wrinkle their noses at how it flirted with impropriety.

Her hair was coiled high, glinting with gold pins, and her mouth painted in a shade too dark for innocence. She always dressed at the edge of what was permissible. Tonight was no different.

“Choose the green cape,” she said smoothly, without preamble. “So we’ll match.”

The servants froze like startled deer. Then, with a clumsy bow, they all murmured excuses about “giving the lady and Alpha privacy” and scuttled out of the chamber, leaving behind scattered fabrics and muttered protests about order.

Namira’s heels clicked as she crossed the floor. She didn’t stop until she stood right before him, hands rising to rest against his chest, her touch light and deliberate. Her perfume was a heady mix of jasmine and smoke, cloying in the small space.

“You always send them running,” Draven said dryly, looking down at her hands.

“They bore me,” she said, beginning to fasten the buttons of his shirt as though she were entitled to. “And you never care what they put on you anyway.”

Her fingers worked slowly, deliberately. Her eyes rose, searching his face. “I heard about the rogue witch.” Her lips curled faintly around the word. “Is it true? Is she really your mate?”

“Yes,” Draven said simply.

The single word landed heavy between them. Namira’s fingers stilled halfway up his chest.

Her mouth tightened. “What would happen to me, then?”

Draven caught her wrist before she could move higher, his hand firm but not rough. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.

“Namira,” he said quietly. “Why are you asking me? Your father already told you.”

Her jaw worked. “My father said you’ve been bewitched.”

Draven laughed. Not loud—no, it was low and humorless, a dark curl of sound that made her flinch just faintly. “Bewitched?” His mouth twisted. “That would be a neat excuse for everyone, wouldn’t it?”

“Then you admit it,” she pressed. “You admit something is wrong—”

He let go of her wrist and stepped back, pulling the shirt from her fingers before she could finish the last buttons. “What’s wrong, Namira, is that I have a hall full of guests waiting to be fed and entertained, and you’ve chosen now to whine like a child.”

Her nostrils flared. “Whine?”

“You think this is new?” he went on, ignoring her. He reached for the belt a servant had left draped across the chair, fastening it around his waist with quick, precise movements. “Every woman in this castle wonders what becomes of her when I take a mate. You’re not special for asking.”

Her face went pale, then flushed crimson. “You’re cruel.”

“You’ll survive.” He tugged on his cuffs, straightened them, and finally looked at her again. “Now go paint yourself with more powder or whatever it is you do before banquets. I have indulged this conversation long enough.”

She bristled, shoulders squaring, lips parting for another retort. But the flick of his gaze back to the door made it clear she was dismissed.

Namira huffed, a sharp exhale through her nose. She turned on her heel, skirts whispering as she stalked out.

The door thudded closed behind her.

For a beat, Draven stood still, silence pressing against his ears. He let out a slow breath, rubbed at the back of his neck, then glanced at the mirror across the room. The reflection staring back at him looked every inch the brooding Alpha they expected—shirt half-buttoned, dark hair falling over his brow, shoulders tense as stone.

The doors opened again, tentative this time.

The servants peeked in, cautious as mice. “Alpha,” one ventured. “Shall we… continue?”

Draven arched a brow.

They bustled in at once, clearly relieved he hadn’t torn their heads off. The one with the capes practically tripped over himself to hold them up again. “So Alpha, have you decided? Green or black?”

Draven glanced between them, then at his reflection once more. The faint thrum of his bond with Seraya tugged at his chest, a pulse that made the green seem gaudy in his eyes.

“Give me the black one,” he said at last.

The servant sighed in visible relief, draping it over his shoulders.

Draven let them fuss, fastening the clasp at his collar, straightening the folds, smoothing the fabric as though he were some statue to be polished. He said nothing more, his mind already elsewhere—in the dark beneath the earth, where chains burned

silver against skin, and a pair of red-rimmed eyes glared into the dark without breaking.